How the Consultant Copes
by Tia-Pixie
Summary: "Drugs bust?" John inquired cheerfully of Lestrade who nodded once. ... Again, Lestrade and John's eyes met. "It stops being pretend if we find anything." Persuasive action to get information from Sherlock backfires for John and DI Lestrade. COMPLETE
1. Discovery

_**Disclaimer: Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just play with them a bit.**_

**A/N: Set an indefinite amount of time after The Great Game and once the new series starts, will obviously turn out as AU. If Sherlock seems a bit OOC at the end, he is meant to be a bit but hopefully he isn't massively so. **

**It's quite short but it should be updated over the next week or so. **

**Please read and review, any constructive criticism is very much welcomed and I accept anonymous reviews (as a matter of fact, I didn't realise it was an option not to.)**

_Italics are flashbacks including the final line but that is also actually a line from the show (A Study In Pink), I'm not claiming it as mine._

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><p>"Oh honestly, Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed as he strode through the door into the living room to find Lestrade and his team already there.<p>

"Tell me what I want to hear," Lestrade said reasonably, shrugging. "Tell me what you know, and we'll all get out your way."

Sherlock made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a snarl before throwing himself down onto the sofa and crossing his arms defiantly. Lestrade rolled his eyes, nodding at his team to continue.

"Thanks for helping." John muttered at Sherlock as he trudged up the stairs, heavily laden with shopping bags. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but otherwise ignored him. Shaking his head, John deposited the bags onto the kitchen counter. "Drugs bust?" He inquired cheerfully of Lestrade who nodded once.

They both smiled exasperatedly as Sherlock sighed in frustration and hurled himself over to the other end of the sofa so that he could watch the officers currently taking apart their flat, still glaring mutinously at Lestrade. After fidgeting restlessly for barely a minute, Sherlock leapt up and strode out of the room.

"Right, well…cup of tea?" John suggested, clapping his hands together and strolling into the kitchen as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to have a senior member of Scotland Yard as well as several of his team rooting around for his flatmate's drug stash.

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><p>John and DI Lestrade were sat in companionable silence, drinking tea as the officers searched the flat with somewhat alarming enthusiasm when Sherlock returned to the room.<p>

"Still here, Anderson? You must be exhausted." Sherlock commented condescendingly as he nearly collided with the man, walking through the door. The man scowled at him but took the bait.

"Why?" John shook his head at the stupidity of the man for asking; there were times when Sherlock deliberately bated Anderson but sometimes, the man really did walk into it.

"Good night was it, Sally?" Sherlock called through to the kitchen, still smiling coldly at Anderson. "There's lipstick on your collar," he informed him. "You could at least _try_ to be interesting, Anderson," he turned and added to John in a disgusted voice "don't you think it's all a little cliché? It's so…boring – so mundane – shagging the woman you work with. It's all so – "

"Yeah, all right, Sherlock. That's enough." Lestrade cut in, shooting him a reprimanding look.

Ignoring him, Sherlock continued, "I mean, really Anderson, you – "

"Sherlock! Behave!" John commanded, not even looking up from his newspaper, although even Lestrade could see the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. Sherlock huffed and gave John a look that could only be considered a pout. "Just…come and sit down." John advised with a sigh.

Sherlock obeyed, perching on the back of the sofa with his feet on the cushion. John glanced up, frowning and was met with a look he had seen most-often directed at Mycroft. Sherlock gave him a defiant look that clearly said "_problem?" _Shaking his head and murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "…living with a _child_", John returned his gaze to his paper.

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><p>Half an hour later, when he looked up again, he found Sherlock had moved to sit cross-legged at one end of the sofa, glaring furiously at Lestrade. The DI sat at the opposite end, studiously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.<p>

"You could just tell us, you know." He announced suddenly. Sherlock gave no indication of having heard him.

John found himself suddenly concerned. Lestrade allowed Sherlock free reign over a particularly difficult case (and his officers) and Sherlock got a kick out proving how much cleverer he was than the rest of them. On the rare occasions when Sherlock withheld his findings or removed evidence (which happened more often than John felt comfortable with), Lestrade staged one of his 'pretend' drugs-busts and Sherlock would yield and eventually return whatever it was or disclose his findings – that was just how it worked. John (and, he suspected, Lestrade) was confident that there were no drugs to be found and that Sherlock's uncharacteristic compliance was caused more by his discomfort at having so many people in _his _space and touching _his _things than because he was worried about being caught with drugs on the premises. So it struck him as odd that after so many similar situations, that Sherlock had not caved and told Lestrade whatever it was he wanted to know. True, it was the first bust Lestrade had felt necessary since John's first case with Sherlock but still...

John observed Sherlock observing Lestrade, he wondered if he was imagining it but he fancied there was something different about the expression gracing his flatmate's features. Last time, Sherlock had seemed defiant, exasperated, furious even, but now? Sherlock still looked furious but there was something off about it that John couldn't put his finger on – it was reminiscent of how Sherlock had looked during '_The Pool Incident'_ as John had taken to thinking of it. That night, Sherlock had been outwitted, made to feel powerless and that had made him angry and, though he had never said as much to John, frightened. John flattered himself to think a good part of that anger and fear had been because he, John, had been in danger and Sherlock, for all his intelligence, was completely helpless to stop it. In one of his sedative and pain relief-induced moments of honesty, Sherlock had confided in John (though John had not mentioned it again as he was fairly certain Sherlock did not recall the conversation) that he felt guilty over the incident.

"_It was my fault, John," Sherlock had admitted despondently, his gaze glassed over but not just from the sedatives or whatever was in the IV. "I 'played the game', and I – we – lost. I wasn't…I just wasn't clever enough. I'm sorry."_

_John had tried to convince him otherwise, but part of him knew it was true. He didn't blame Sherlock for it, by any means, but the fact was that Sherlock had been the only one with any real chance of outwitting Moriarty. He was the only one capable of seeing a person and knowing what they would do in any given circumstance, and the only one who could see a situation and know almost instantly every outcome but he hadn't found the one that would lead them out of it without Moriarty escaping and them very nearly dying. _

"_There was nothing you could do, you couldn't have known." John had finally said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. Sherlock had shot him an offended look at which John smiled sympathetically, squeezing his hand again. Finally, Sherlock had nodded begrudgingly, a stray tear leaking out as he did so then closed his eyes and given into sleep._

"You don't know, do you?" John asked gently, quietly.

Lestrade frowned in confusion. "What do you mean he doesn't know? 'Course he bloody well knows!" He snapped frustrated.

John ignored him, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock gazed angrily at the sofa cushion then slowly raised his gaze to meet John's. He didn't need to say it. John could tell just by the look of hurt and hopelessness on his friend's face. Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds then dropped it back to the sofa, shame radiating off him. If the officers and Lestrade, or perhaps even just the officers had not been there, John rather suspected he would have flown to Sherlock and hugged him senseless. As it was, he stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing tightly.

"Get out. He _won't_ tell you because he doesn't have anything _to _tell you." John ordered quietly, so that only he, Lestrade and Sherlock could hear. From the look of astonishment and disappointment that crossed the DI's face, one would never have guessed that Lestrade was a perfectly competent detective even without Sherlock's help. In fact, although there were times when cases genuinely seemed impossible without Sherlock's assistance, there were times when John suspected Lestrade of passing Sherlock the interesting or difficult cases just to annoy his team and keep the younger man entertained. This was actually not such a case, and John was therefore sympathetic to the DI's plight – he had gained something of a reputation for solving the truly difficult cases thanks to Sherlock's assistance and it was not going to look good on Lestrade if this one continued much longer. In fact, to say Lestrade looked disappointed was putting it mildly, the man looked like a child who'd just been told there was no Father Christmas.

"But – "

"Lestrade, just piss off, will you?" Sherlock's voice was very tight – choked – even Lestrade looked concerned. He and John shared a look over Sherlock's head.

"Just go, Greg," John said, "you're not going to find anything anyway." He felt Sherlock tense under his hand as he spoke. Frowning, he glanced down at the younger man and suddenly everything clicked. "_No_, _Sherlock_." He breathed.

As if on queue, Anderson and Donavan's voices floated out from the kitchen.

"Ergh! Are these _human_ eyeballs? What kind of psychopath keeps _human eyeballs_ in his kitchen cupboards? I can't believe you – "

"Sir!"

Again, Lestrade and John's eyes met.

"_It stops being pretend if we find anything."_


	2. Confrontation

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.**_

**A/N: Normally, I would apologise for the update being so horrendously overdue BUT this time wasn't my fault and had nothing to do with me being lazy or stuck for ideas. No, dear readers, this time was entirely due to some b****** breaking into my flat and taking my PC while I was out celebrating the end of my first year of uni. Fortunately, for me, all of my possessions were packed in boxes and stored in my car ready for moving out the next day so all they really took was my laptop. Unfortunately for me (and you, I guess if you were waiting for it), my laptop had the only copy of my completed update for this story which was ready and waiting for me to do it ASAP. So to cut a long story short(ish), the time between updates was because I am going to have to totally rewrite the updates for this story (and a few others which had yet to be published) and move home from uni etc. Funnily enough, by the time I wrote this update, I couldn't recall anything from my first version of it and it's taken me in a totally different and slightly darker direction than I intended. Hopefully, my muse will return soon and I will be able to return to the shameless H/C fluff that this was meant to be – I think if I continue in this vein, Sherlock'll be joining Moriarty by the end of the month! D: **

**Thanks to all of the reviewers from the last chapter – I was thrilled with all the positivity and some of you putting in CC too so that was awesome too. I think there's a different feel to this chapter but hopefully it still works as a continuation. **

**Anyway, enjoy (hopefully) and any and all reviews are much appreciated and usually responded to in some way. Oh and quick shout out to Elinix, hopefully this chapter answers a few of your questions but if not then hopefully the next one should!**

**Oh and there's quite a lot of swearing but it's only 'bl**dy' so I wouldn't have thought it would bother too many people, just a quick warning though. Oh and mild references to drugs…obviously.**

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><p>"<em>Sir!"<em>

_Again, Lestrade and John's eyes met. _

"_**It stops being pretend if we find anything."**_

For a moment, it seemed as though nobody even breathed. Lestrade lowered his gaze to the top of Sherlock's head, clenching his jaw hard before returning his eyes to John. John looked calm, as always, but he raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed hard. Together, they turned towards the kitchen door where Sally Donavon stood clutching a small, dark box. Shooting one sideways look back at Sherlock, Lestrade wandered reluctantly over to her.

"What have you got?"

Donavon bit her lip, seeming oddly (for her) reluctant to hand it over. Anderson on the other hand, had no such problem. He snatched the box out of her hands and thrust it into Lestrade's before Donavon could answer.

"Open it!" He commanded excitedly. If Lestrade did not know better, he might have wondered whether Anderson had been sampling the box's contents himself. The man was completely unable to contain himself, he actually seemed to be bouncing on his heels – in fact several times, it seemed as though he would reach out and open the box for the DI himself if Lestrade didn't hurry up – every inch of him seemed to tremble with sadistic glee.

Lestrade eyed the box hatefully, turning it over in his hands. "Right, clear out the rest of you," He barked to the flat at large. "Go back to your real jobs before I report you!" As his self-volunteered team shuffled out muttering about 'The Freak', Lestrade contemplated the box in his hands. It wasn't much to look at, dark chestnut wood with gold edging, a few chunks missing here and there, scratches over every surface and plenty of damage around the catch – he didn't need Sherlock to spell it out for him, he'd been in this division too long to not recognise the signs when he saw them. Besides, it wasn't the first time he'd seen this particular box; though he had been beginning to believe he would never have to see it again.

"Sir," Anderson's urging voice brought him out of his contemplations. "Open it!"

Lestrade's finger played with the lock and catch – the catch was old, but the lock was new. That was weird, _why was that weird_? His inner voice was beginning to sound a bit like Sherlock, he mused. He was very aware that all eyes were on him, watching for his next move. He glanced back at John and Sherlock, John stood watching, with his hand still gripping Sherlock's shoulder – even from a distance, it looked painfully tight. Sherlock still sat with his head in his hands, eyes averted, elbows on knees, body as taut as the strings of his beloved violin.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Key?"

Donovan handed over a tiny gold key, the Christmas cracker kind. "Right on top of the box."

"Where'd you find it?" He was putting off the inevitable, he knew that. But, after four years of him being clean, Lestrade wasn't ready to open that box and find what he _knew_ was inside of it just yet.

Donovan grimaced but answered in her usual casual tone. "Medicine cupboard. Right next to the pain killers and the hay fever stuff."

"What it wasn't even hidden?" Lestrade's disbelief was evident.

Donovan shook her head. "We'd have found it sooner but…" She trailed off, before finishing apologetically "But, well, it's always there."

Lestrade looked up sharply at her words. "What d'you mean '_it's always there'_? If it's always there why haven't we found it before?" Donovan opened her mouth, closed it then shrugged, seemingly lost for an excuse. Lestrade startled at someone clearing their throat next to him and turned to find John standing to his right.

"That's um, that _isn't_ drugs," Relief and a more than a hint of amusement mingled in his voice. "It's for his…thinking," he was met with two police officers and a pathologist looking very blankly at him, John sighed exasperatedly. "Oh God, it's nicotine patches and stuff like that! He doesn't even smoke," he turned to address Lestrade "I told you you wouldn't find anything."

Any hopes Lestrade might have raised from John's words were immediately crushed by Donovan clearing her throat and nodding pointedly at the box. Realising he couldn't delay any longer, Lestrade unlocked the flimsy little padlock and flipped the catch upwards. The three others leaned in in order to get better looks at the box's contents. Bracing himself, Lestrade made to open the box.

"Don't." Four heads swivelled in Sherlock's direction. He had barely moved and was not looking at them, although he had raised his head and now sat with only his chin resting on his clasped hands. He gazed unseeingly ahead of him – in fact, had the others not reacted too, Lestrade might have thought he had imagined the voice.

"Why not?" Anderson asked indignantly, and a trifle loudly – it seemed he had been forcing himself to be silent for too long. "Why on Earth _wouldn't _we open it?"

"Because you all already know what's in it." It spoke volumes that Sherlock did not so much as attempt an insult on Anderson. He spoke calmly but Lestrade rather thought he detected a touch of resignation in the younger man's voice, it sounded hoarse – as if the very act of speaking was paining him.

"Erm, I don't," John raised his good arm in case Sherlock was in any doubt. "I don't know what's in it. You know, me? Your flat mate?" Sherlock's gaze flicked briefly to John's, down to the floor, back again. "Oh my God." John muttered. "I take it it's _not _nicotine patches then?" He licked his lips and nodded despairingly. "Brilliant. That's just bloody…brilliant, isn't it?" He turned to Lestrade and Donovan who seemed to be awaiting his instructions. "Oh, go ahead! Open it."

Lestrade held his breath, and reluctantly opened the small box. Each person's reaction it seemed, though simultaneous, was completely different. Donovan clenched her jaw and watched Lestrade searchingly but remained otherwise unmoved. Anderson remained silent but gave a funny sort of jump into the air crossed with a silent cheer – had John been watching he would have been forcibly reminded of Sherlock on realising there was a new serial killer about (_"It's Christmas!"_). Lestrade swallowed convulsively, nodding and closing the lid with a loud snap that he was glad to notice made Sherlock flinch almost imperceptibly. John, on the other hand, was far more vocal.

"BLOODY HELL, SHERLOCK! There's enough bloody smack in here to take down a bloody _elephant_!" Had it not been such a serious situation, Lestrade might have laughed.

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><p>"Are you going to arrest him?"<p>

"What do you think?" Lestrade heaved a sigh and they both glanced at the younger man through the glass door of the kitchen. "I can't _not_ arrest him," John shot him a look and he added defensively "Well, I don't _want _to! Donavon'll keep quiet if I ask but…well, Anderson'll cause trouble."

"You're the one that brought him along." John pointed out unsympathetically.

"Well yeah, for a laugh – I didn't think we'd actually find anything, did I?"

"Why do you do them then?" John demanded exasperatedly. Lestrade looked blankly at him. "The drug busts! If you don't think you'll find anything then why do it?

"You know why! He can't just hide evidence from me, they're my bloody cases!"

"He gives it back eventually," Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Most of the time." John amended. "Anyway, most of the stuff he nicks you couldn't use in court so why –"

"He works the stuff out then doesn't tell me for days!"

"He doesn't _have_ to tell you at all, it's _your_ job, Greg! He tells you eventually, what difference does a day make?"

"You're starting to sound just like him, you know that?" Lestrade remarked coolly. "It matters 'cause while Sherlock's off doing whatever it is Sherlock does when he's deliberately withholding stuff, _people die_!"

John paused. "There's been another?"

"Not this time, no," Lestrade conceded wearily. "This one _was_ just for fun."

"Yeah, it's all fun and games between you two until one of you ends up in prison."

"He's not gonna go to prison. It's a first offence, there'll be a trial but he'll come out with a massive fine and a slap on the wrist." John looked doubtful but nodded at Lestrade's reassurances.

"Hang on," John said suddenly, "how can it be a first offence? You knew when I first met you that he'd done stuff before."

"He was a kid, I never charged him." Lestrade shrugged. John looked as though he might inquire further but Lestrade interrupted. "What am I meant to do, John? I _can't _charge him."

"I thought you said he wouldn't go to prison."

"He won't," Lestrade assured him with a wave of his hand, "but I can't keep having him consult on cases with that on his record. I mean, it's unofficial but that doesn't mean people don't know about him – I could lose my job as it is, if people find out he's a junkie that's it!" Suddenly, Lestrade leapt up from his seat and strode into the lounge.

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><p>Sherlock's pale gaze followed them as they entered the room; he sat with his chin rested on top of his knees, legs tucked up to his chest. John took up his usual armchair, allowing Lestrade to take the floor – this was, after all, a legal matter more than a medical one although John was more than a trifle concerned at the prospect of Sherlock having been able to hide a drug habit from him for…what? At least a month?<p>

Sherlock watched John appraisingly before slowly returning his gaze to the inspector who was pacing and shooting looks of mingled disappointment and fury. Finally, he stopped and turned to Sherlock, finally after several false starts, he asked shortly "Are you using again?"

John couldn't help but feel the answer was fairly obvious given what they had discovered in the flat and which now lay on the coffee table between them. Sherlock apparently agreed with John that the question (or perhaps Lestrade himself) was not worth his attention, preferring to look disinterestedly out the window.

"Sherlock." John said impatiently.

Sherlock regarded Lestrade, eyes narrowed. "Would it matter?" He barely flinched when, in answer, Lestrade grabbed and hurled the box of drugs at him.

All three of them stared at the box, Lestrade breathing heavily. Finally, he repeated in a low, oddly hollow voice "Sherlock, are you using?"

"No." Sherlock ground out tightly.

"I could examine you, if you're…if you're lying." John murmured, not looking at Sherlock.

"_Try_." Even Lestrade, who was used to hearing that voice looked startled at hearing the vicious tone in Sherlock's voice – particularly as it was being directed at John.

It was funny but since _The Pool, _John had seen an increase in occasions when he found the idea of Sherlock _actually _being a sociopath completely ludicrous; there had also been an increase in instances where the idea didn't sound so unlikely after all. The cold condescension in his colleague/friend's voice reminded him vividly of Moriarty; this occasion was definitely beginning to fall into the latter category.

"Look, I…" Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably as the younger man's cold gaze returned to him. "Of course it makes a difference – we had a deal, Sherlock!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, John almost thought he saw a flicker of something in his flatmate's otherwise icy gaze.

"Yes, well…if you've _quite _finished, I have a case to be getting on with." He drawled.

"Finished?" Sputtered Lestrade "No! I haven't bloody…it's _my _case actually! And no, I haven't finished! Sherlock, this is serious!"

Sherlock's eyes took on a sadistic, knowing gleam. "Going to arrest me, _Detective Inspector_?" Condescension dripped from the job title. Lestrade flushed, his jaw clenching. Seeing this, Sherlock smirked maliciously.

"That's it, I'm calling Mycroft!" Sherlock's face fell instantly at John's words.

"What?"


	3. Reinforcements

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.**_

_**A/N: **_**Apologies for lateness, blah blah blah. I just caught up in other stuff, BUT I am writing on a laptop again (not mine but still…) so hopefully the next couple shouldn't be too much longer to wait. I think the story is going to be longer than I thought. Anyway, this chapter is pretty short but it seemed like a natural place to end it so I did. I'm going to get started on the next one while the creative juices are still flowing though!**

**It took me a long time to be happy with my Mycroft but I actually really enjoy writing him so that's nice for me. I'd love to hear your thoughts on him anyway.**

**As always, thank you for the lovely reviews. If I didn't get back to you, it may be because I haven't seen them but more likely, I just haven't had the chance I'm afraid. I will try to reply to more though. In particular though, thank you to all those who offered condolences on the loss of my beloved laptop – I don't know when I'll get it replaced but hopefully there shouldn't be any more laptop related disruptions.**

**As always, read and review and I hope you like it!**

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><p>"It seems we have reached a familiar impasse, Sherlock." Mycroft leant back in his chair, regarding his younger brother. Sherlock glared back. "You, I presume, have no intention of desisting in this…detestable behaviour voluntarily?" Sherlock shook his head almost imperceptibly, and Mycroft sighed. "Are we, then, to stage some form of intervention? Look into rehabilitation clinics, perhaps?" Mycroft suggested congenially. Sherlock's glare softened, eyes narrowing into uncertainty rather than resentment. Mycroft's voice hardened. "Or will we instead be expected to endure your whimpering and <em>snivelling<em> your way through the withdrawal once more?"

"Now, hang on a sec!" John exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and reaching out one arm as if to touch Sherlock despite being sat on the far side of the room. Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly. "You can't say…I mean, he's made a _massive _mistake but I think that's a bit harsh, isn't it?" He turned to Lestrade for support, who eventually raised his eyes from the floor long enough to meet his gaze.

"Well, yeah…but, I mean…it's tactics, right? Y'know, tough love and that." Lestrade said awkwardly.

John gaped for a moment, looking from Lestrade to Mycroft to Sherlock and back again. "Not anymore it's not." He pointed out quietly, easing back into his chair resignedly.

"Your concern for my _dear _brother's delicate sensibilities is touching, Dr Watson, though I fancy that concern is overwhelming your medical judgments in this matter." John bristled at the accusation but found he could hardly deny it. "I was exaggerating, of course," Mycroft continued serenely, returning his attention to Sherlock, "we needn't worry about withdrawal or rehabilitation, need we, Sherlock?" At John and Lestrade's puzzled expressions, he explained somewhat patronisingly, "One must be engaging in the use of such substances in order for withdrawal to become an issue."

"He's not…you mean, he hasn't…but we found…I don't understand." John finished blankly, staring at Sherlock who refused to meet his gaze.

"You mean he's not using?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"One can hardly say it has not crossed his mind, but no. He is not, and has not engaged in _this_," Mycroft gestured at the stash of brown and white powders, "for some time."

Lestrade ran a hand over his face, clearly relieved. "Oh." He said, eyeing at Sherlock apologetically.

"I did tell you." Sherlock commented softly, speaking for the first time since Mycroft had entered the flat.

"Yeah." Lestrade said faintly.

"That's…good." John said finally. "That's…I'm glad, Sherlock."

"Not going to examine me to make sure?"

"No, of course not! I – "

"I'm glad _Mycroft's_ word is good enough for both of you."

"Sherlock, come on! What were we supposed to think?" Lestrade exclaimed defensively. He sighed exasperatedly. "Look, I'm – we're – obviously glad you're not taking anything, but to be honest, Sherlock, it doesn't make any difference."

Sherlock suddenly went very still, regarding Lestrade carefully. Slowly, he turned questioning eyes to John who shrugged grimly. "He's right."

"It doesn't make any difference," Sherlock repeated very slowly. Suddenly, he lurched to his feet, excused himself and left the room. A few seconds later, they heard the bathroom door lock.

The three remaining sat in silence for a few moments until quite suddenly John sat up straight. "You don't think he's got anything in there, do you?"

Neither man answered but Mycroft smiled pityingly at him and Lestrade shook his head slowly.

"Do you think he's coming back?" Lestrade asked of nobody in particular.

"Not until I leave, I suspect." Mycroft answered cheerfully. "He can be terribly petty, you know," he commented with a slight laugh, "I recall he once – "

"Your brother's facing drugs charges, is now really the time to reminisce?" John said, exasperated.

Mycroft cocked his head to one side in interest, clearly unused to being interrupted. "Perhaps not. Remind me, Detective Inspector, why do you feel that charges are the correct, nay, _only_ course of action?"

"Anderson." Both John and Lestrade supplied shortly.

"Ah." Mycroft said softly, steepling his fingers and leaning back. "Well, I daresay he can be…taken care of." John's eyes widened in alarm – he and Mycroft may have been on fairly friendly terms but he still hadn't quite recovered from his initial, somewhat sinister meeting with the man in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. "Not to worry, Doctor Watson. I simply intend to explain to Dr Anderson why his natural response to this incident will not be conducive to his continued association with the home office and Scotland Yard. I see you have the same absurd inclination towards the dramatic as my brother."

"I'm not arresting him then?" Lestrade asked in relief.

"Not today."

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><p>"Sherlock? Cup of tea outside the door." John announced, hesitantly knocking on the door. He sighed and returned to the lounge where Lestrade and Mycroft were sipping their drinks in silence.<p>

"Why does he have it then?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said blankly just as Lestrade asked, "What are you on about?"

"The drugs." John clarified. "He could start dealing with the amount in there." Here, Lestrade scoffed. "It must've cost a fortune, and he hasn't used any of it."

Lestrade shrugged and returned to perusing the books on the shelves lining the wall. John rolled his eyes and looked expectantly at Mycroft.

"I suspect," Mycroft said in a slightly scolding tone "that that is a question you ought to ask my brother, Dr Watson, not me. And, having said that, I believe it is high time I departed," he said, rising to his feet. "There is no need to summon a cab, my car is waiting outside. Detective Inspector, can I offer you a ride to the Yard?"

"Er, yeah, all right." Lestrade said, surprised.

"I shall take this and dispose of its contents appropriately," Mycroft said, pocketing the box of drugs, "My brother will emerge within the next fifteen minutes unless I am very much mistaken; even so, if you would inform me of his return, Dr Watson, I would be most grateful. Goodbye, Dr Watson."

With that, Mycroft strolled from the room.

"Right…well, I'll see you soon, I suppose." Said Lestrade awkwardly, "Let me know when he…" he gestured vaguely towards the locked bathroom door. "I'm still gonna want a word with him!" He added in a much louder voice, angling his head towards the door.

John nodded and began collecting mugs from around the room. "Yeah, well…join the queue. Listen, Greg, I really appreciate this – you know, not arresting him and that."

"If I didn't charge him five years ago, I'm hardly gonna to arrest him now, am I?" John raised his eyebrows pointedly. "That is, if Mycroft can sort this Anderson thing out." Lestrade amended.

John 'hmmed' then considered Lestrade for a moment. "So, when you met him…he was, you know…?" He asked hesitantly. Lestrade nodded once. John looked as though he was debating whether to continue or not, but finally continued, "Then you – I mean, _someone_ – must've gotten him off them then? I mean, he was clean when I met him, so…." The question trailed off and they were left in awkward silence.

"Yeah. I sort of…I mean, Mycroft…it was a bit…" Lestrade stammered, "He got clean." He finished lamely. Suddenly, he brightened. "Still up for that pint tomorrow?"

John blinked at the abrupt change in conversation. "Erm, is now really a good time? I think I should probably…" he gestured regretfully towards the bathroom.

"Nah, he'll be fine. It's only a few hours." John looked doubtful. "Bring him with you?" Lestrade suggested, badly suppressing a grin.

John rolled his eyes. "I hardly think so, _Detective Inspector_." Lestrade gazed disappointedly for a moment, then pulled out his mobile as it announced an incoming message.

"_My presence is awaited at the Palace. MH"_

Lestrade scowled. "How do they do that?"

"Mycroft?" John inquired, "Sherlock reckons he's had your number for years."

"Yeah, but I've changed my number about four times since then." He pocketed his phone, "I'd be lying if I told you the two were entirely unconnected." He added conspiratorially. John smiled sympathetically. "Anyway, I'd better be off – don't want to keep the _other_ one waiting. That pint though, John, if not tomorrow then soon, yeah?"

John nodded, seeing the DI out the door before returning to the flat. "They've gone, Sherlock." He announced as he walked past the bathroom. He was rewarded with the sound of the bolt sliding back, though it was not until he reached the kitchen that he saw Sherlock's dark figure slink across the landing and up to his bedroom.

**A/N: Yup, sorry. Sherlock is NOT back on drugs, sorry to those who were happy when they thought he was (nasty people!). But that is not the end of the drugs issue, all shall be revealed… R&R!**


	4. Cruelty

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock, The Great Game and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD.**_

**A/N: Apologies but my inspiration for writing has crawled off and fallen into a coma recently. I'm told the creative writing people have it under control and are hopeful it will pull though and make a full recovery. This is my least favourite chapter so far, not so much because of what's in it but more because of the style I've written it in – not sure why though, I think maybe it's just because there's a lot more introspective/thought process stuff instead of dialogue. Also, I'm wondering about OOCness but it's difficult to tell because aside from a little bit in The Great Game, we've never really seen the boys when they've fallen out so it was a little hard to write it in character. Anyway let me know what you think. **

**And as always, thank you for all the reviews so far and to all those who added this to alerts (sorry it's taken so long). I will, as always, try to send quick notes of thanks but just in case I miss people or the reviews are anonymous, THANK YOU!**

**Also, there is quite a few swear words in this (b****y, f**k, and possibly another one) so please don't be too offended by them. Oh and in case anybody is unsure, anxiolytic drugs are prescribed as anti-anxiety pills (eg. Valium, Xanax etc.)**

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><p>"Sherlock? Lestrade just rang, they've closed the case – the next door neighbour made a full confession last night." Cringing, John knocked on the door again. Once more, there was no answer. He hadn't seen Sherlock all day – he'd even called in sick at the clinic just in case – and the events of the previous evening were weighing heavily on his mind. "He said there was no way you could've known – the guy only moved in last month, he only spoke to her twice. It was just unlucky, he had the one girl already and the neighbour just interrupted," silence. "Look, you couldn't have known," he repeated.<p>

Sighing and resting his forehead against the closed door, he attempted yet another tactic. "Look, Sherlock, this is daft. Can we just talk about this?" Sherlock remained stubbornly locked in his room. Losing his temper, John gave up with trying to coax his flatmate out. "D'you know what? I jumped to conclusions and I'm sorry I believed Mycroft but not you, but given the evidence, what was I supposed to think? And if you're going to be like this then stay in your bloody room – I'm sick of this Sherlock, I'm bloody sick of having to take the blame for everything just 'cause you're so damn stubborn!" He was met with yet more silence.

John swore again under his breath. "Look, Sherlock, it isn't normal to go out and buy some smack just because you've had a bit of a hard time recently. You need to deal with how you're feeling, not just block it out with drugs – that isn't what normal people do."

"_Really_?" Sherlock threw the door open so fast that John barely avoided being hit in the face with it. "So what is it that those little pills do for you? The ones that say _my _name on the prescription?"

"What were you doing in my bedside cabinet?" John asked, more than a little miffed. Sherlock just glared. "Anyway, taking medically prescribed – "

"_By you_."

" – _prescribed _anxiolytics is a bit different to shooting up some potentially lethal stuff you got off some junkie! Sherlock, it could've been anything!"

"Oh spare me." Sherlock drawled.

"What?" Said John, surprised.

"Spare me your _concern,_ John. I don't want it – and if I did, it wouldn't be from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh please! You're a jumped up stretcher bearer, who was so desperate for company that you moved in with a sociopath, _fuck_ women you barely know and illegally prescribed yourself drugs just so that you can go out in the world without pissing yourself every time you hear an Irish accent!"

John stood shocked, unsure whether to punch Sherlock or throw him down the stairs. Sherlock apparently had not finished, he continued in the same vicious tone.

"Do you know what the saddest, most _pathetic_ part of it is? After everything that's happened, you're still following me around like a stray off the street – Sherlock Holmes," he threw his arms out clumsily, introducing himself to an imaginary audience before gesturing to John, a feral grin on his face, "and his faithful _dog_ Dr Watson."

There was a long silence; Sherlock's heavy breathing the only sound. John stared at him in the artificial lighting, took in the dilated pupils and last nights clothing – the tailored shirt now clearly sporting a rip up one arm from the button hole to the elbow and the jacket thrown on the floor behind its owner.

"I'm going to bed. When you're down off whatever the hell it was you've just taken, you'd better drink some water and do the same." John advised quietly. He imagined he had seen a flicker of regret in his flatmate's eyes as he turned to enter his own room, pausing in the doorway to cast a disapproving scowl at the detective before shutting the door hard.

Several hours later, John was still wakeful and lying in bed, staring moodily at the glaring red digits on his clock radio. He half sat up as he heard Sherlock's bedroom door open. Straining his ears for any indication of what his flat mate might be doing up at…_quarter to four?..._in the morning, he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Tiptoeing to his own door, he opened it just in time to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone being violently sick. He weighed up his positions; 1) he was a doctor and there was someone quite clearly unwell (by their own doing but still…) just a flight of stairs away from him and he was hiding in his room like a child because that person had hurt his feelings and 2) Sherlock was a grown man, who had already had a somewhat prolific dalliance with drugs and was presumably therefore quite capable of throwing up without killing himself in the process.

As it turned out, he was spared the necessity of making a decision when he heard the toilet flush and saw his flatmate's long silhouette staggering up the staircase again. Silently observing, he went to close the door far too late and flushed embarrassedly as Sherlock's bloodshot eyes met his. Sherlock froze, startled, and for a moment John thought he would turn and flee downstairs but he continued to edge silently towards his bedroom. John averted his gaze as Sherlock passed him but cursing his complete inability to keep up the silent treatment (even though Sherlock _really _deserved it), he muttered:

"You all right?"

Sherlock once again froze, looking puzzled. Finally, he gave a short nod, continued to his room and shut the door with a click.

* * *

><p>Cautiously, John pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open. Even two floors up, he could just about make out Mrs Hudson's voice – not shouting exactly but as close to it as she ever came with Sherlock. Praying that she would detain Sherlock long enough for him to have a quick nose around Sherlock's room, John stepped inside and shut the door quietly. He could not think why he was making such an effort to be quiet – he was after all, the only person in the flat – but it seemed appropriate to be quiet when he was essentially trespassing on Sherlock's property. Making his way across the room, he made a concerted effort not to tidy up (bit of a give away) though it was hard, but cleaning up Sherlock's mess around the sitting room and kitchen was one thing, he drew the line at tidying his bedroom for him.<p>

Years of attempting to sort Harry's drinking habit out had taught him where to look first: under the bed (juvenile but easy), back and very top of the wardrobe (Harry couldn't reach but Sherlock certainly could have), underneath any loose floorboards. Bracing himself (one never could be sure what to expect in Sherlock's domains), he leant down to look under the bed and found an empty bottle of what appeared to have been scotch – _very good_ scotch. Further investigation turned up an empty vodka bottle, five odd socks and no less than three of Lestrade's police ID badges.

John searched every other place he could think of with growing relief as each place turned up nothing even vaguely drug-related (of questionable legality, in some cases, but certainly nothing to do with drugs.) Pulling himself up from where he had been crouching, trying to see underneath the wardrobe, he lunged forward just in time to prevent a glass falling from where it was teetering on the edge of the desk. Setting it back on the desk (slightly further in but hopefully not so far as to alert Sherlock to his invasion), he noticed a single, worn out slipper sat underneath the desk. Glancing around but unable to find its mate, John put his hand in the shoe, right down to the toes. His fingers peeked out from a quite substantial hole, on one side; on the other, he found a small plastic bag containing a very small bottle and a hypodermic. Swearing and slipping the bag into his pocket, he stood. Gazing disappointedly around him to make certain that everything was in the place it had been when he entered, he returned to his own room.

John was beginning to feel a familiar angry disappointment setting in that he had previously only associated with Harry. Sherlock was the most incredible, most exciting man he had ever met. He was good, despite what Lestrade said; and despite what Sherlock himself said, he did care about people, John was certain of it. And Sherlock was willing to waste his life – waste himself – on drugs that would almost definitely be the death of him someday if he didn't sort himself out! It occurred to John that his therapist would probably have a field day if he ever told her exactly how alike Sherlock and Harry were. Harry wasn't a genius but she was still ruining her own life with the alcohol.

Sighing, John tipped out the contents of the bag and felt three emotions simultaneously. First, there was supreme annoyance – the hypodermic had been stolen from his medical bag! Second, slight relief and almost pride that whatever Sherlock was taking, he did at least have the sense to use his own needle instead of sharing. Finally, and most of all, absolute relief that not only did the solution _appear_ to be clean, it was also completely unopened.

* * *

><p>"You've been in my room."<p>

John raised his eyebrows behind his newspaper but did not look up. "You've been in mine," he countered coolly, not even bothering to deny it. "Call it even, shall we?"

"_You_ took something from my room. I want it back."

"Tough," he knew he was being childish but now that the relief had worn off, the anger and hurt was back tenfold. "Anyway, half of it wasn't yours in the first place. When did you nick that needle by the way?"

"John," Sherlock began firmly, as if explaining to someone that was very slow – it occurred to John that to Sherlock, he probably _was_ one of the dullest, stupidest people in the world. Even as he thought it, John grudgingly admitted to himself that he was maybe sulking (just a bit), and that Sherlock most likely did not think that about him – if Sherlock truly thought someone was dull, he just didn't bother with them, even Anderson must have some sort of curiosity in him to have kept Sherlock interested for so long. "John, I _need_ it back." Sherlock told him determinedly.

"No, you don't. You only really feel like you need it when you're addicted so unless you've used since yesterday…," a sudden horror struck John and he finally looked up from his paper, "Oh God, you haven't?"

Sherlock sighed and dropped dramatically on to the sofa. "No," John returned his gaze to the article he had been pretending to read since Sherlock had entered the room. "But I know what you were thinking last night and I can see why but – "

"You were drunk." John cut in bluntly.

"Well, yes."

"People get drunk."

"Yes, I realise that."

"They don't all compare their flatmates to stray dogs." Sherlock met his gaze for half a moment.

"No."

"I'm going out in a bit. Maybe I'll see if I can't find a nice woman to '_barely know'_ before I _fuck_ her," John was pleased to see Sherlock flush at hearing his own crude words thrown back at him. "I do that apparently."

"Look, John, I really do think that you're overreac – "

"I don't care what you think right now Sherlock, quite frankly."

"Oh John, come on! Be reasonable!" Sherlock snapped, clearly having reached the end of his vaguely apologetic mood.

A car horn sounded outside, just as John's mobile began to ring. Glancing at the caller ID, he stood and snatched his jacket up from the arm of the sofa.

"That's me," John stopped himself from saying '_I'll probably be back late'_ or '_see you later'_, settling instead for "no more drink, no drugs and stay out of my room!"

It occurred to John as he shut the front door that he might as well have added '_no wild parties and no having any girls (boys?) over'_. As he slid into the front passenger seat of Lestrade's car, he wondered when he had stopped being Sherlock's colleague/friend/flatmate and become his parent.

**Any thoughts?**


	5. Fall Out

_**Disclaimer: Not mine, Sherlock and its characters belong to the BBC and Sir ACD. Total Wipeout belongs to the BBC and I believe Who Wants to be a Millionaire? belongs to ITV.**_

**A/N: Sorry about slow updates again, this chapter has been rewritten about eight times now but I felt so bad about how slow my updates have been that this chapter is a longer one to make up for it (hopefully I haven't sacrificed quality for quantity!). The other excuse was that I was away in Cornwall in a caravan so I had no internet for a fortnight – it was a bit not good. Anyway next chapter is virtually finished but I just need to tie it into the end of this chapter first.**

**Thanks for all the fab reviews, I hope I replied to everybody but like I say I had no internet so I apologise if I missed people. Just one thing, I had an Anonymous review (which is fine) that used the acronym 'ANSI' obviously I couldn't reply to it but could someone please tell me what those letters mean? I thought I was pretty well-versed in internet abbreviations but apparently not… :/ **

**Oh and if you're reading this **_**Anonymous**_**, thank you for the review it was lovely and I'm glad you're enjoying it!**

**Warning for one use of the word 'b*stard' and 't*sser' (I know the second one isn't really swearing but just thought I'd be safe!) Oh and obviously, there are references to drug and alcohol abuse - it suddenly occurred to me that I should have warned about that from the start but I just sort of assumed all of you intelligent people would realise that...**

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><p>DI Lestrade watched, eyebrows raised, as his companion paid for the drinks and proceeded to down half of his in one go.<p>

"God, I needed that." John sighed, making a satisfied noise in the back of his throat.

Nodding slightly, Lestrade gestured to a table in the window overlooking the Thames. "He can't be that bad, it's only been 48 hours," he protested, sipping his pint and considering. "Actually, forget that. So, what's he done?"

John paused, taking another mouthful. "Not much really – I've barely seen him. He got absolutely plastered last night though, thinks no matter what he does I'll just keep going back because I'm his 'faithful dog' apparently," even Lestrade looked shocked at what Sherlock had said, "oh, I almost forgot! D'you know he actually reckons it's hypocritical of me to have a go at him about taking smack if I'm taking anti-anxiety pi – " John stopped short, glancing warily at Lestrade.

Misunderstanding his hesitation, Lestrade was quick to reassure him. "John, there's no shame in needing help every now and then," he advised kindly, "I can't tell you how many times the shrink at The Yard has suggested pills to me, anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, sleeping pills – the lot."

Feigning an intense interest in observing their fellow pub-goers, John inquired nonchalantly, "Did you take them?"

"Well…not really. Got a few bottles of sleeping ones knocking about somewhere, I take them every now and then. None of the others though," at John's pointed look he added hastily "but that doesn't mean I _wouldn't _if I really needed to!"

"You think I '_really need to'_ then, do you?" John asked irritably.

Realising he had put John's back up, Lestrade sighed. Smiling placatingly, he said, "Look, nine times out of ten, the cases that I have to go and see the bloody woman about are cases I've worked with Sherlock on. God knows what I'd be taking if I _lived _with him!"

"I'm not taking them because I live with Sherlock." John protested sharply, finding himself clinging to his foul mood just a little longer.

"Yeah, all right, I know," Lestrade said wearily, shaking his head, "Look, can we not talk about Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes now? If all you're gonna talk about is him, you might as well've brought him with you!" With that, he leant back in his chair and started sipping his beer in stony silence.

John raised his eyebrows and muttered something like "You brought him up!" under his breath. After a few minutes of watching Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, he finally deflated – it _had _been ages since he'd been out without Sherlock showing up uninvited and Lestrade _was _missing a perfectly good pub quiz night with his team from the Yard to come for a pint with him. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Sorry, it's just he's…Never mind, let's talk about something else."

There was an awkward silence between them until Lestrade abruptly broke it.

"Did you catch Total Wipeout last night?" He asked cheerfully, as if they hadn't both been sulking for the better part of ten minutes.

"Was that on last night? I thought it was tonight!" John cried, sounding genuinely distressed, "Oh well, I might catch it on the repeat I suppose…anything good happen?"

Lestrade sipped thoughtfully for a minute. "Some obese Welsh woman almost drowned trying to pull herself onto the first pontoon."

John laughed. "What? Is that even an obstacle?"

"Probably not. My round, is it?"

* * *

><p>Pulling up outside 221, Lestrade turned the headlights off and turned to John. "Right, well, let me know if you-know-who does anything particularly awful – there must be a few fines or something outstanding that I can get him for, if you like."<p>

Grinning at the semi-serious offer, John glanced at the darkened windows of the flat. "D'you need to come up for a coffee or something?"

"Trying to seduce me, Doctor Watson?" Lestrade smirked.

"Hardly," John scoffed. He sobered, "Seriously though, are you all right to drive?"

"I've made it this far," Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly, "besides, I remember what we found last time I went through your kitchen cupboards."

"Fair point," John conceded, "actually, that reminds me. What's going on with Anderson? I just sort of assumed it was sorted."

"Oh that, yeah it's sorted – he's being pretty decent about it actually, well, as decent as Anderson is about anything. I think Mycroft must've put the frighteners on him. Anyway, he hasn't mentioned it and I'm certainly not going to so…" he shrugged again.

"I never got a chance to tell you earlier, I was in Sherlock's room earlier and – what _are_ you doing?" Lestrade had suddenly shifted to rest folded arms on the top of the wheel and laid his head on them, looking at John blearily.

"Sorry, I've gone tired." He explained sleepily, "ooh, Sherlock's about." He pointed out, watching the flat behind John's head.

"So he is." John agreed, turning to see the silhouette in the darkened living room. "Anyway, I found another stash in Sherlock's room."

"WHAT?" Lestrade sat up so fast his arm accidentally honked his car horn, causing a few lights to switch on in flats nearby.

"He hadn't taken anything as far as I could see. I just thought you should know."

"What the _hell_ is he thinking? That _idiot_! God, maybe we should just let him go to prison, at least then…" He trailed off, apparently too furious for words. He buried his face in his hands and gave a muffled shout into them, sitting up and running his hands through his greying hair. "D'you know what? I wash my hands! I really do, he's a grown man for crying out loud! I'm finished with him, John. No more cases! If he wants to go off and ruin his life – again – then let him, but he's not doing it while he's my Consulting Detective! And what the bloody hell is that anyway? _A 'Consulting Detective'_?"

"Erm, he invented it I think," John blinked, somewhat stunned by Lestrade's not-unimpressive outburst. John did not believe a word of it but he was sure it felt good to say.

"'Course he did." Lestrade muttered.

"Anyway, I'd better get in, if you leave your engine running at this time of night much longer people are going to come out and complain and I'd rather they didn't think you were anything to do with me – I still have to live on this street even if you don't," Lestrade obediently turned the ignition off. "And as for giving up on Sherlock, I think I'll stick it out a bit longer – you've had to put up with him nearly six years longer than me and you're still here," he smirked "unless you really are going to wash your hands?"

Lestrade seemed to really consider this question. Finally, he rolled his eyes and matched John's smile. "But no telling him, yeah? As far as he's concerned, I'm still thinking I might shop him, right?"

"How long do you reckon it'll take him to work that one out?"

"Depends how long I can avoid seeing him really," he sobered suddenly, "Seriously though John, I know he's been a complete tosser, but _someone_ needs to talk to him."

"Yeah, I know," John sighed. "I just don't see why it has to be me. You sure you don't want that coffee?"

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, I've woken up now. Night, John."

John watched him for a minute before deciding he would probably get back in one piece assuming he didn't speed or anything daft. "If you're sure," he shrugged "night, Greg."

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><p>John winced as he accidentally bumped into the bannister in the darkened hallway of 221B. Even in his semi-inebriated state, he had realised it would not be possible to enter the flat and make it to his room without Sherlock's knowing it; he had hoped however, to make it there without drawing attention to himself. Apparently, this was a feat far beyond his abilities.<p>

To John's mingled surprise, relief, and disgruntlement, his flatmate remained in the living room, not even acknowledging his presence. John decided that although in this state he felt far more confident about his ability to talk things through with Sherlock, it would probably not have advanced his argument if John himself was half drunk while he attempted to discourage Sherlock from using alcohol and other substances. Resolving to have their discussion first thing in the morning (or as close to morning as his inevitable hangover would allow) no matter how much abuse, sulking or being ignored Sherlock threw his way, John headed upstairs to bed.

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><p>As it turned out, John did not get to have his talk with Sherlock the next morning. Or the next. Or the one after that. In fact, after almost a week of not hearing or seeing Sherlock (or his experiments) once despite multiple invasions of his bedroom, which never seemed to look any different, John was beginning to wonder if the younger man might have simply moved out. His anger at Sherlock's words the week before having long since abated (Sherlock had after all been <em>very<em> drunk, not to mention _very _angry about the raid), John had become genuinely upset about this possibility. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were both reassuring, stating categorically that Sherlock would not have moved out without taking his possessions with him; Mycroft however, was not as useful. Having not so subtly berated him for 'misplacing' Sherlock in the first place, Mycroft had then refused to disclose any and all information regarding his brother's current whereabouts.

Proof of Sherlock's continued presence at 221B came in a most unexpected way. Having used up the last of the milk on his cereal that morning, John had hurriedly scribbled _'__Buy milk__!'_ on a piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge before dashing off to work at the surgery. Upon his return that evening, he was astounded to find the milk supply replenished with not only a bottle of semi-skimmed but also skimmed and full fat milk. Puzzled, he wandered out into the stairwell.

"Sherlock," he called surprised, "Did you buy milk?" He shook his head in amused exasperation as the shadow that had appeared upstairs when he called Sherlock's name returned to its room without a word.

Reassured that he still had a flatmate, John wondered whether he ought to now be concerned that Sherlock didn't seem to have eaten or drunk anything from the kitchen all week but quickly dismissed these worries. Sherlock was, after all, a man in his thirties and could hopefully therefore be trusted to eat something eventually if only to stop the hunger from distracting him from the more important aspects of his life.

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><p>At about nine o'clock, John awoke from a quite unintentional nap in front of the TV. He was momentarily annoyed at the loud, staccato violin notes sounding from upstairs, assuming it to have been this that awakened him before realising it had more likely been the surprisingly loud buzzing from his mobile phone, which was lying on the coffee table in front of him. Cautiously checking the caller ID, he grimaced.<p>

"Hello, Clara?" He half-asked.

"Hi, yeah it's me," she said wearily. He could tell from her voice that she had been crying. This time three years, six trial separations and one divorce ago, he would have been concerned but now, if he were honest, his interest was largely feigned.

"What's up?" He asked, sitting up straighter and clearing his throat, "What's happened now?"

"Harry's… God, I – John, Harry wants to try again."

"Right," John said vaguely, flicking onto a rerun of _Who Wants to be a Millionaire?._

"Well, what do you think? It could work this time, she said she'd been dry for nearly a month now and the rehab is going really well and – "

John scoffed. "What rehab?"

"She said she…oh. Right, okay." clearly struggling no to cry again, Clara took several deep breaths. "Right, thanks John. I'll um…talk to you soon I suppose."

"Clara, I'm not saying she hasn't done it, she just hasn't mentioned anything about it to me." John hurriedly backpedalled, knowing full well that there had been no rehab. "But…I did speak to her last week." He added reluctantly. There was an awkward pause. "Sorry." John told her, as always genuinely regretting having to be the one to set his ex-sister-in-law straight.

"No, it's fine," Clara half-sobbed "s'not your fault your sister's a deceitful little…" she broke off.

"Clara – "

"I've got to go, John. Take care."

Suddenly left with a dial tone, John sat back. Idiot that Sherlock was being now, he had been clean for nearly five years (as far as anyone could tell). At least when somebody had asked him to try, Sherlock had come off drugs – had actually _tried _to get better instead of hitting rock bottom and just being content to stay there. And, he reasoned, Sherlock had had at least two separate stashes in the flat and not used either of them despite how much he must have wanted to in order to buy them in the first place – not to mention how money he must have spent on them.

John could just imagine what would have happened if Harry had been in a house stocked with alcohol. Suddenly, the fact that Sherlock was in possession of narcotics did not seem nearly as important as the fact that he _had not_ used them. His drunken insults had been hurtful, yes, but Harry had said far worse to him (sober and drunk) – in fact, _John_ had probably said far worse to Harry while _he_ was sober. Almost on cue, his phone buzzed again, this time with a text. Opening it, he raised his eyebrows as he read it. It was from Harry, who was writing to inform him of her opinion of him following his conversation with Clara. It was _not _complimentary. A wonderful example of Harry being worse than Sherlock, it attacked not only his opinions on Harry's marriage but also John's personality in general, choice of flatmate, choice of girlfriends, decision to join the army, service record whilst over there and career since coming home and finally his _height_. It also described which orifice she would like him to insert any further opinions in to…vividly.

Turning the phone off, John found himself actually feeling something akin to affection seeping back into his feelings for the detective once more – utter bastard that he had been, at least he had seemed apologetic afterwards (sort of), John would be lucky if Harry even recalled this message, let alone apologised for it.

No longer in the mood for television, John switched it off and retired to his room. "'Night, Sherlock!" He shouted as he passed Sherlock's door.

The violin music paused before resuming in a slower, more melodious piece.

**Thoughts?**


	6. Conversation

**Disclaimer: You know the drill. I own nothing.**

_**A/N: No time for a proper note but thanks to all who reviewed, they were lovely. Hopefully Sherlock isn't too OOC, I tried really hard! He's quite tough to write actually. The drugs stuff should be fairly accurate but I apologise if it's not - put it down to Sherlock's exhaustion-addled brains. So anyway, as always, hope you enjoy. Please r&r.**_

_**Warning: References to drugs use. And I think there's a few 'bloody's in it too.**_

_***Edit*: On reading the story as a whole again, I don't think I'm going to continue it any further - partly because in all honesty, I don't think it's my best work (after re-reading my other Sherlock fic) but also because I feel that the end of this chapter works as the end of the story really. There was going to be a Sherlock & Lestrade conversation but I don't think it's really necessary since he didn't come into it nearly as much as I'd planned him to. Apologies to anyone who has been waiting for an update on it, I guess if people really want that scene I might do it eventually but for now, this is the final chapter.**_

_** Enjoy (hopefully).**___

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><p>John sighed as he flicked the kettle on, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering against his chest. It had definitely not been a good dream, but it was already fading in his memory. Still, bits of it seemed to have been etched onto his eyelids. Given what had gone on in it, it had ended quite well really. Even so, it had left him completely on edge, full of a nervous energy that did suggested he'd not be getting any more sleep that night…morning.<p>

A car screeched outside and John jumped, knocking his mug off the counter as the kettle clicked off, the resulting smash sounding ridiculously loud against the nocturnal silence. Cursing himself, he knelt to pick up the pieces, wishing he had thought to 1) turn the light on as he entered the room and 2) put on his slippers before coming downstairs.

Satisfied that he had the majority of the bits and resolving to write a note warning Sherlock just in case, John stood.

"OH MY GOD!" Sherlock's gaze did not falter. "Sherlock, you almost gave me a heart attack!" John said laughing uneasily and trying to calm his once more hammering heart. Placing the broken mug on the counter, John turned back to his flatmate, who sat perched, cat-like upon the counter on the other side of the kitchen, the streetlamps giving his face a strange, hollow appearance.

Sherlock continued to gaze unblinkingly at him, barely seeming to be breathing. Unnerved, John took another mug from the cupboard, "You having tea?" he offered over his shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock replied so quietly that John barely heard him, "please." John raised his eyebrows at hearing the foreign (to Sherlock at least) word coming from his flatmate.

"You okay?" John asked, feigning normality, as he shuffled past Sherlock who hesitated a second before following him into the living room. "I haven't seen much of you this week. You haven't been in your room the whole time have you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if the question confused him. "Sherlock," John tried again, waiting until Sherlock's eyes met his, "are you all right? You seem a bit…" he struggled to find the words to express what he meant, "…unusual." John decided at last.

"I'm fine. Thank you, John." Again, John was surprised at how polite Sherlock was being.

"Right…" He murmured uncertainly. "Listen, erm…oh! Thanks for buying milk by the way," Sherlock inclined his head slightly, unblinking. "While we're both here, can I ask you something?"

Sherlock searched John's face for a moment before nodding almost imperceptibly and entering the room properly. John gestured to the sofa opposite, inviting Sherlock to sit which he did, drawing his legs up underneath himself and clutching his mug in both hands. His eyes were still on John – it was starting to get more than a little eerie.

"Will you stop that? It's getting really creepy!" Sherlock blinked at John's suddenly sharp tone, but obediently averted his gaze. John was tempted to tell Sherlock that his suddenly having discovered manners was getting creepy too but stopped himself just in time. Silently, they sipped tea.

John noticed absently that it was beginning to get light outside, and that the shadows on his flatmate's face that he had thought were cast by the orange streetlamps were not disappearing as he had thought they would. God, Sherlock looked exhausted – beyond exhausted! Draining the last of his lukewarm tea, John placed it (somewhat forcefully) on the coffee table in front of him.

"Sherlock," the detective's eyes flicked to him, away again, "Sherlock, I'm…" John broke off, unsure of what to say, how to start. Finally, after several more false starts at which Sherlock would obediently shift his gaze to John as he spoke before averting it once more when it became apparent that John wasn't going to continue, "God, Sherlock, _why_?"

For a moment, it looked as if Sherlock would answer; he opened his mouth but closed it again, shaking his head.

It suddenly occurred to John how clinical their positions were – Sherlock sat opposite, where he, John, had dictated he sit while John sat on the other side of the room, with a desk (well, coffee table but as good as) in between them. And now John planned to interrogate Sherlock about his coping strategies and recent almost-descent into drugs. It was distastefully similar to John's meetings with his ex-therapist or his patients. Rising, he padded over to the sofa and sat down at the far end to Sherlock, twisting to face him.

Sherlock, having watched his progress, scooted further up the sofa, finally ending up sitting on the arm with his feet on the seat.

"I thought things were okay – that side of things, I mean." John prompted haltingly. "I don't think I've ever even seen you smoke."

"I don't smoke." It was automatic, a response that John had heard directed at him and so many others since meeting Sherlock. It was automatic, but John thought he heard the hint of a challenge behind the tone.

"You don't do drugs either." John pointed out gently.

"No." Sherlock agreed flatly. They stared at one another until Sherlock (surprisingly) broke the eye contact, leaning to rest his forearms on his knees, his head bowed.

The silence stretched on and John got the distinct impression that Sherlock was either sulking or asleep…possibly both. Conceding defeat, for that night at least, and resigning himself to another awkwardly Sherlock-free week, John picked up his mug, returned it to the kitchen and started towards his bedroom again.

"How do you make it stop, John?"

Returning to the living room, John perched himself on the arm of the sofa.

"Why does it all have to be so _loud_?" Sherlock slid from his perch and slumped against the sofa back in a manner most un-Sherlock-like. John frowned, confused.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure…I don't…what are you going on about?"

Sherlock turned his face as if with great effort, towards John. "All the…thoughts in your head," spoken as usual as though explaining something that should have been obvious, "God, John, don't you have them? You must have _some_ at least! How do you make them _stop_? I just want some quiet!" Sherlock's voice, normally so confident, was desperate; John decided he had preferred the unending silence. "There's all these thoughts in my head and I don't know which ones are good or right and even if I did, I could be wrong – I was wrong about him, wasn't I?" Sherlock laughed bitterly, the sound seemed a touch hysterical.

"Sherlock," John felt bad for interrupting the rant especially since he had been wanting Sherlock to talk to him for nearly a week now but Sherlock didn't seem to have drawn breath for a good two minutes. "Sherlock, how the _hell_ was taking stimulants going to help with that?" He asked exasperatedly.

Sherlock paused in his rant, looking curiously at John. "Well, they weren't."

"Oh my God…" John muttered, "Right, so why take – "

"No, no, no, no, no. The _stimulants_ were because if I wasn't sleeping anyway then I might as well be doing _something_ useful – I went and bought milk! And beans and…custard or something." Sherlock sounded hurt that John hadn't noticed. "But it was all so _miserable _and_ dull_, and I just thought they might make the whole thing a bit more enjoyable or…anyway, that was them. The _depressants _were meant to slow everything down, so I could give each thought the attention it would _obviously_ deserve."

"Obviously." John agreed under his breath. Unsure what to say to that particular piece of logic, he said no more, instead waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"I knew it was the neighbour," Sherlock admitted hesitantly after a few moments, trying to gauge John's reaction. When it appeared he was not displeased, Sherlock continued. "I knew but I…I wasn't sure so I couldn't – I didn't _want_ to tell them yet. I'm never _not_ sure." He added dazedly, before continuing thoughtfully, "It was so…random. That 'crack team' of Lestrade's have been calling it fate or coincidence. Idiots."

"Not fate, then?"

"Don't be so tedious, John," Sherlock suddenly sounded much more like his usual self. "You know it wasn't fate, you're far more intelligent than that." John felt his face heat up slightly at the unexpected compliment. "It was random," Sherlock repeated "she could have been anybody – she was going to die from the second she knocked on the door – but had she not gone round at that exact moment, she'd still be alive."

"You don't think that's bad luck?"

"Of course not, there's no such thing," Sherlock snapped, "What I mean, is that there was no reason – she was just _there._"

"Not all murders are meticulously planned by nut-jobs and hit men. There isn't always a reason, Sherlock," John shrugged, "There isn't always a link."

"Except," Sherlock admitted slowly, "sometimes there is one, and I just don't see it." He fell silent, watching John out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said abruptly, studying him uncertainly.

John stiffened, frowning. "Well," he began gruffly, "it's not like it's the first time anybody's tried to blow me up, is it?" As he had hoped, Sherlock's lips twitched. Returning the smile, he teased "It _probably_ won't even be the last if I keep hanging around with you." He cursed himself as Sherlock's tentative smile faded.

"Would you…" Sherlock broke off. Clearing his throat he continued, "Would you rather…they didn't?"

"Obviously." John said immediately.

Sherlock looked somewhat startled by his bluntness but nodded sagely, standing as he did so.

"No, Sherlock, look," John said quickly, standing up and blocking the other man's way. "Most people don't like nearly getting blown up, they don't find it _fascinating _or _exciting, _they find it bloody scary! So yeah, actually if in the future, we could avoid that scenario, it might be nice." He grinned exasperatedly. "But, Sherlock, come on! The bits in between, you know, where I'm _not _almost dying are pretty well…amazing - you're amazing! It's all just…" John threw his hands up.

"Amazing. What's a little mortal peril between friends, eh?" Sherlock murmured, smiling slightly. He sobered, again looking at John nervously. "It won't stop, you know."

"I know."

"There might always be a strange little Irish man waiting to steal you away from me."

"Getting a bit possessive there, people will talk."

"John."

Their eyes met, holding each other's gaze.

"Yeah. I realise that."

"So," Sherlock began almost shyly, "You're staying then?"

"Of course," John said, surprised, "When was I not staying – did you think I was going to move out?"

"Well, no," Sherlock declared confidently, "if you were going to – which you weren't – you'd have done it by now." He gave a sidelong glance at John before continuing casually, "Glad you are though," John raised his eyebrows, "Someone has to pay the other half of the rent. Can't afford it on my salary."

"You don't have a salary." John pointed out, grinning.

"All the more reason to have a flat mate," Sherlock smiled proudly, lying back down on the sofa, arms folded across his chest. John collected Sherlock's forgotten mug of tea and turned towards the kitchen. "Coffee!"

"What?" John asked, ducking back into the lounge.

"Coffee," Sherlock enunciated carefully. "If you're making a drink, I'll have coffee."

"Yeah, well I'm not. And the last thing you need is coffee, get some sleep!" John ordered, feeling the familiar sense of being perpetually miffed at his flatmate creep in. He felt better than he had in a fortnight. Turning to make the drinks anyway, he called out "And whatever happened to '_please'_?"

"You were never going to leave," Sherlock said smugly, sitting up as John set his mug back on the coffee table "but I thought I should make it slightly more appealing for you."

"Yeah well, cheers. What's your next experiment going to be then?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I've far too many going now; I couldn't possibly start another until the others have reached completion."

"Right."

"Besides, I don't think Molly could get me another corpse at such short notice." Sherlock added as an afterthought, smirking as John spat a mouthful of tea back into the mug. "It really is a shame there aren't more around."

"Sherlock!" John cried indignantly.

Sherlock reached for his mug, smirking, clearly enjoying himself. Taking a mouthful, he calmly placed it back on the table. "What's that?"

"Tea."

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, I realise that. I said coffee."

"And I said get some sleep." John returned to his drink and started flicking through his mobile, appearing completely unaware of Sherlock's glare. He smirked as Sherlock finally gave up and reached for his by then lukewarm tea.

_**Thoughts?**_


End file.
